It's been years, decades even, since I've read anything by Arthur C. Clarke. Yet I'm profoundly saddened to hear of his death at age 90.
No need for sorrow, really--again, he was 90. And continued to live well, deep-sea diving nearly every day despite the debilitating effects of post-polio syndrome, still churning out novels, though none would ever have the impact of his seminal works, Childhood's End or Rendezvous With Rama. Those books ranked among the best friends I had in junior high and high school, and I could return to them to be reminded that my day-to-day travails were as nothing, that there was something more, a higher purpose to our time on earth.
Still, they meant nothing compared to 2001.
I literally divide my life into before and after the first time I saw 2001: A Space Odyssey. Before, there was my house and my life and my corner of the world. After...there was everything, a universe of possibilities. My mind was well and truly blown. I spent days, weeks, months, years trying to unlock its mysteries. Full of awe and wonder, yet disturbingly pessimistic, it was the first movie I ever encountered (I was 10 at the time) that demanded something of me, transcending mere entertainment to enter the lofty realm of Art.
The film, of course, reflects Stanley Kubrick's vision much more than Clarke's. The novel Clarke wrote parallel to the production of the movie makes literal what Kubrick allowed to remain abstract. Kubrick is clearly the greater artist, but 2001 certainly showcases one of Clarke's recurring themes, the need for humankind to transcend its prosaic existence and attain a higher level of being.
For Clarke, perhaps, that time has finally arrived. He is infinite.
